


Renewing, Rebuilding, Reflecting

by boltshok



Category: Transformers - All Media Types
Genre: Cutting, Depression, Drug Abuse, Drug Addiction, Drug Withdrawal, Established Relationship, M/M, My AU sprinkled in... sorry, Suicide Attempt
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-04-16
Updated: 2020-04-18
Packaged: 2021-02-28 11:47:00
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 9
Words: 9,035
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22969474
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/boltshok/pseuds/boltshok
Summary: “Circuit boosters. No wonder you’re all burnt out, Prowl. You’ve been hitting the hard stuff again.”Jazz looks from Ratchet, to First Aid, to Prowl. “Circuit boosters?” he says. “As in booster chips? Hard drugs, Prowl?”
Relationships: Jazz/Prowl
Comments: 6
Kudos: 43





	1. Disconnecting from Teletraan

“Prowler? Prowl! Prowler, ya can’t stay connected ta dis machine ferevah,” Jazz urges, grabbing Prowl’s hands.

“It’s... Teletraan...”

“Ah know, but ya are gonna be assimilated,” Jazz says, looking over the cables connecting Prowl’s helm to the Teletraan I host terminal. “Gotta undo dese... hang in there...”

Undoing one of the smaller cables, Jazz works his way up, disconnecting Prowl from the supercomputer. When the last, largest cortical cable is pulled, Prowl surges forward in his seat and purges his tank onto the floor, retching and gasping.

“Jazz,” he wheezes, reaching for the cortical cable held in Jazz’s hand.

“No, Prowler, ya can’t go back in,” Jazz murmurs, casting the cable aside as he crouches next to Prowl and puts an arm around him. “C’mon, ya gotta go to da medbay. Yer a wreck an Ah can smell summa yer systems burnin’. Dat’s bad fer yer health, and Ah need yer help wit’ Blue and Moons.”

Prowl can’t form coherent words as Jazz lifts him upright, and together both black and whites trudge down the hall towards the medbay. First Aid is ready and waiting when they arrive, and he helps Prowl to lay down on a medical slab so he can begin running diagnostics.

As First Aid starts the diagnostic scans and dials into Prowl’s medical dataport, he glances through the readings once and calls for Ratchet. 

“What now,” Ratchet grouses, limping over. He leans heavily on his cane and studies the results First Aid shows him. “Circuit boosters. No wonder you’re all burnt out, Prowl. You’ve been hitting the hard stuff again.”

Jazz looks from Ratchet, to First Aid, to Prowl. “Circuit boosters?” he says. “As in booster chips? Hard drugs, Prowl?”

Prowl looks away from Jazz’s glowing visor.

“He’ll have to go through the detox before any repairs will stick,” Ratchet says.

“Ah can take care of ‘im,” Jazz says, looking between both medics. “It’ll be what, three days? Somethin’ like dat?”

“Give or take,” Ratchet says, shrugging. “Are you sure, Jazz?”

“E’s mah bonded, Ah can do it,” Jazz says, trying to hide the growl in his voice. Ratchet puts a hand on First Aid’s shoulder and limps away from the berth, going to another patient being tended in the bay.

“Here’s some instructions and information on what to expect,” First Aid says gently, giving Jazz a new datapad. “Please call if you need anything. Help or otherwise.”

“Thanks, ‘Aid.”

The first night was rough. After being disconnected from Teletraan I Prowl couldn’t bear to be left alone after being constantly in the presence of the computer’s mind for so many weeks. This essentially chained Jazz to their quarters, but he attentively sat with Prowl and helped cool his systems off when they heated up to the point of processor overload. 

As the night pressed on, Prowl began to retch, and without anything in his tanks to come up he suffered through waves of dry heaves. Jazz mopped his forehead and held him in his arms in the bathtub, filled with cold water to keep Prowl’s internal temperature from skyrocketing. 

By the next day, Jazz has Prowl under the covers and is rubbing his back and struts futilely. Prowl’s frame twitches with involuntary spasms, and each shock sets him to quietly whimpering.

“Ah’m so sorry, sweetspark,” Jazz murmurs, rubbing his palms over the sensors on Prowl’s panels. “Jus’ hang in there. Ah’m right here wit’ ya.”

At midday, Jazz is napping lightly, arm wrapped around Prowl’s middle. Feeling the roiling in his tanks again, Prowl lurches up and stumbles into the washroom to empty his tanks. Nothing comes up and he sinks down to the floor, venting roughly.


	2. I Need That High

Boosters. Circuit boosters. He could feel the lingering charge in his processor, and it whispered to him.

More... more...

Standing up shakily, Prowl shakes his helm to clear the fuzziness in his optics. Boosters. Stash. After double-checking that Jazz is asleep, Prowl creeps out of the habsuite.

Stalking down the hall to his office, he tries to keep his doorwings at a neutral level, but he can feel them slipping lower and lower. The mecha in the hall skirt around him to stay out of the way, eyeing him cautiously. Prowl makes it to his office and desperately keys in the code, opening the door and then slamming it hastily as he hurries over to his desk, rifling through the drawers to finally unearth a rattling tin in the bottom of the lowest drawer. 

Pulling it out with shaky fingers, Prowl opened it and dumped two-three-not enough chips into his hand before tossing them back. He crunches their solid containers open and the concentrated, spiked energon burned his throat on the way down. 

Slumping down in his office chair, Prowl drops the tin.  
...  
Bluestreak bounces down the hall towards the office. In his arms are a bouquet of flowers and a box of sour energon candies. 

“Mama’s gonna love you, sour things are his favorite and you are very sour,” Bluestreak chatters to himself, punching in the code to Prowl’s office.

The door swings open and he looks up when he spots a flash of white. “Mama!” he squeaks, panels jerking up. “I wasn’t— Mama?”

Prowl hangs off the side of his chair, doorwings spread-eagle and unlit optics staring blankly off into space. His mouth hangs open, the remnants of the boosters slowly dripping out. Bluestreak loses his grip on the gifts and hurries over to Prowl’s side, pressing his helm to Prowl’s chest.

His spark’s still beating. He’s alive. 

“Medic,” Bluestreak whimpers. “Medic! MEDIC!”

Down the hall, hurried footsteps come to the door of Prowl’s office before rushing away again. First Aid returns promptly, a medkit in his hands.

“Step aside, Blue,” he urges, clearing off Prowl’s desk and setting the kit down. 

Scanning Prowl’s frame, First Aid grabs a bag of energon out of his subspace along with a set of tubing and a thick intravenous needle.

“Hold this up,” First Aid says, handing Bluestreak the bag. He whimpers and stares with wide eyes at First Aid.

“Blue, you help me or you get out,” First Aid demands as Ratchet limps into the room, venting heavily. Raising the bag sharply, Bluestreak presses himself against the wall. 

“For frag’s sake,” Ratchet growls. “Prowl, again.”

First Aid starts the energon flow and scans Prowl’s spark signature. “He’s fading, Ratch.”

“Get him on the desk here. Help me,” Ratchet grunts, casting his cane aside and grabbing Prowl’s feet. 

First Aid lifts him by the shoulders and hefts him onto the desk while Ratchet returns to his chest. Two cables snake out next to Ratchet’s hands and the ends transform into small flat panels. Pressing the patches against Prowl’s chest, Ratchet starts the voltage. Prowl’s frame jerks as the shock runs through him and First Aid continues to monitor his spark output.

“He’s guttering,” First Aid says, medscanner wailing warnings. 

With a grunt, Ratchet increases the voltage and Prowl’s frame jerks again.

“Ratch,” First Aid warns.

“Yeah, yeah, shut up about my pump,” Ratchet growls. “Come on, Prowl. Not like this.”

With one final shock, the medscanner quiets.

“He’s stable,” First Aid breathes. “Bluestreak! Hold that bag up high!”

Petrified in place, Bluestreak’s hands were slowly sinking but he jerks them back up. From the gawkers in the hall, soft murmurs announce Jazz’s arrival. He is soaked in sweat and leans heavily on the doorframe as he crosses the threshold. 

“What in Primus are ya doing ta him?” he demands, visor brightening as he sees Prowl laid out on the desk.

“Well, Jazz,” Ratchet sighs, detaching the paddles from Prowl’s chest. “This might be the last strike.”  
...  
“I can’t in good conscience let Bluestreak or the infant remain in your possession while Prowl is like this,” Ratchet says, writing his report of the incident. He sits across from Jazz in his office, leg propped up on a pillow with a bag of ice on the knee.

“Blue needs us,” Jazz growls, leaning forward. “He doesn’t know anythin’ else. You know he’s unstable.”

“Do you live with Prowl, or only near him?” Ratchet quips, setting the report down. “Jazz. You can’t sit here and tell me that Bluestreak is better off with you with Prowl in his current condition over another guardian. This won’t be permanent as long as Prowl recovers.”

Jazz sinks down on Ratchet’s desk, pressing his hands to his cheeks. “Ratch,” he whines. “Ya can’t take mah babies away.”

“It’s not permanent,” Ratchet repeats, extending a hand to rub Jazz’s forearm. “It’s for the best, for now. Both you and Prowl need to focus on Prowl right now. Not Bluestreak or Moonlight.”

He pushes a datapad across to Jazz with a stylus. “I think Moonlight would be best in one of these three groups, and I’m sure if asked Bumblebee would welcome Bluestreak under his roof.”

Jazz frowns and signs the datapad, circles his choices and pushes it back over to Ratchet.

“Fine,” he murmurs. “And Prowl?”

“We’re going to keep him here in the medbay while he detoxes,” Ratchet says. “Not to worry. You can stay in the room with him if you want to. Down the hall, room sixteen.”

With a sigh, Jazz exits the office. Time to find Blue.


	3. Stay at a Friend's

“Blue...? Where are ya?” Jazz calls, entering the habsuite. The door to Bluestreak’s room is cracked open, and Jazz cautiously approaches it. “Blue?”

The door flashes open and Bluestreak rushes into his arms, hanging on tight and burying his face in Jazz’s shoulder. He’s crying and talking so fast that all that comes out are blubbers.

“Ah’m here, baby,” Jazz murmurs, slowly walking Blue back into his room. He flicks on the light and sits on the edge of Bluestreak’s bed. 

“Mama, Mama, Mama—”

“Yer Mama’s gonna be jus’ fine,” Jazz purrs, pulling Bluestreak into his arms. “He just needs ta stay in the medbay ta get better, okay?”

“Okay,” Bluestreak sniffles into Jazz’s chest. “I was so worried and First Aid made me hold the bag and what if everything isn’t good, I think those were circuit boosters because I’ve known people who have done those and they aren’t very good but Mama can’t arrest himself so does that mean you’re going to—”

“Sweetspark,” Jazz cuts in, “it isn’t gonna be like dat. But, Ah do have sumthin’ important ta tell ya, so listen.”

Bluestreak’s panels lift and he pulls back to look Jazz directly in the visor.

“While yer Mama’s sick an’ on the mend, Ratchet thinks it would be best if ya... stayed over at a friend’s house,” Jazz says, cupping Blue’s face in his hand. “An’ he doesn’t know how long Mama is gonna be sick.”

“What about Moons?” Blue whispers, and Jazz pulls him in to kiss his forehead.

“Same with Moons. She’s gonna go stay with Westie an’ Lifeflight while all dis gets sorted out.”

“Who am I going to stay with?” Bluestreak asks, worry edging into his voice again. “I have to work so it can’t be that far away and I still have to meet with Rung so I need to stay on or near base—did Ratchet say? Because I could stay with Smoky or—”

“Yer gonna stay with Bumblebee an’ G,” Jazz says gently. “It’ll be real fun for ya, and if yer tired ya don’t have ta go ta work. Ya jus’ gotta tell me so Ah can fix da schedule now.”

“I...” Bluestreak mumbles. “I wanna work. I do. I do.”

“Okay, baby,” Jazz murmurs, pulling Bluestreak back into his arms. “Ya can work. Ah jus’ wanted ta make sure.”

Whining softly, Bluestreak clings to Jazz’s breastplate. Gently, Jazz sinks back on the bed and holds Blue close.  
...  
“—and I put Moons in her crib, she was sleeping when I came in here,” Blue finishes.

Jazz nods and pets his doorwings. “Thanks for tellin’ me, baby,” he says. “Ah’ve gotta take Moons over to da Compound, den Ah’ll be back ta drop ya off at G’s.”

“I can do it,” Bluestreak volunteers, but Jazz only grins and tugs him down for a hug. 

“Nuh-uh, Ah’m gonna drop ya off,” Jazz teases. “Ya ain’t so growed up enough Ah can’t do dat, are ya?”

“...nope,” Blue giggles as Jazz tickles his sides. 

“Dat’s right. You pack whatcha wanna take an’ Ah’ll be back in a little bit, ‘kay?”

“Okay.”

Jazz goes down the hall to the nursery, where Moonlight is just waking up from her afternoon nap.

“Hello there, sweetcakes,” Jazz purrs, lifting her out of the crib. “Didya have a good nap? Yes you did, babygirl.”

Cradling her against his shoulder, Jazz tenderly massages her tiny panels as he pulls her blanket out of the crib. Swaddling her up, he holds her in one arm as he scoops up a few other items. Her comfort toy, some books, and a weak blend of energon to feed her. 

“Alright,” Jazz murmurs, turning for the door. “C’mon... time ta drop ya off.”


	4. The Compound

“Blue...? Where are ya?” Jazz calls, entering the habsuite. The door to Bluestreak’s room is cracked open, and Jazz cautiously approaches it. “Blue?”

The door flashes open and Bluestreak rushes into his arms, hanging on tight and burying his face in Jazz’s shoulder. He’s crying and talking so fast that all that comes out are blubbers.

“Ah’m here, baby,” Jazz murmurs, slowly walking Blue back into his room. He flicks on the light and sits on the edge of Bluestreak’s bed. 

“Mama, Mama, Mama—”

“Yer Mama’s gonna be jus’ fine,” Jazz purrs, pulling Bluestreak into his arms. “He just needs ta stay in the medbay ta get better, okay?”

“Okay,” Bluestreak sniffles into Jazz’s chest. “I was so worried and First Aid made me hold the bag and what if everything isn’t good, I think those were circuit boosters because I’ve known people who have done those and they aren’t very good but Mama can’t arrest himself so does that mean you’re going to—”

“Sweetspark,” Jazz cuts in, “it isn’t gonna be like dat. But, Ah do have sumthin’ important ta tell ya, so listen.”

Bluestreak’s panels lift and he pulls back to look Jazz directly in the visor.

“While yer Mama’s sick an’ on the mend, Ratchet thinks it would be best if ya... stayed over at a friend’s house,” Jazz says, cupping Blue’s face in his hand. “An’ he doesn’t know how long Mama is gonna be sick.”

“What about Moons?” Blue whispers, and Jazz pulls him in to kiss his forehead.

“Same with Moons. She’s gonna go stay with Westie an’ Lifeflight while all dis gets sorted out.”

“Who am I going to stay with?” Bluestreak asks, worry edging into his voice again. “I have to work so it can’t be that far away and I still have to meet with Rung so I need to stay on or near base—did Ratchet say? Because I could stay with Smoky or—”

“Yer gonna stay with Bumblebee an’ G,” Jazz says gently. “It’ll be real fun for ya, and if yer tired ya don’t have ta go ta work. Ya jus’ gotta tell me so Ah can fix da schedule now.”

“I...” Bluestreak mumbles. “I wanna work. I do. I do.”

“Okay, baby,” Jazz murmurs, pulling Bluestreak back into his arms. “Ya can work. Ah jus’ wanted ta make sure.”

Whining softly, Bluestreak clings to Jazz’s breastplate. Gently, Jazz sinks back on the bed and holds Blue close.  
...  
“—and I put Moons in her crib, she was sleeping when I came in here,” Blue finishes.

Jazz nods and pets his doorwings. “Thanks for tellin’ me, baby,” he says. “Ah’ve gotta take Moons over to da Compound, den Ah’ll be back ta drop ya off at G’s.”

“I can do it,” Bluestreak volunteers, but Jazz only grins and tugs him down for a hug. 

“Nuh-uh, Ah’m gonna drop ya off,” Jazz teases. “Ya ain’t so growed up enough Ah can’t do dat, are ya?”

“...nope,” Blue giggles as Jazz tickles his sides. 

“Dat’s right. You pack whatcha wanna take an’ Ah’ll be back in a little bit, ‘kay?”

“Okay.”

Jazz goes down the hall to the nursery, where Moonlight is just waking up from her afternoon nap.

“Hello there, sweetcakes,” Jazz purrs, lifting her out of the crib. “Didya have a good nap? Yes you did, babygirl.”

Cradling her against his shoulder, Jazz tenderly massages her tiny panels as he pulls her blanket out of the crib. Swaddling her up, he holds her in one arm as he scoops up a few other items. Her comfort toy, some books, and a weak blend of energon to feed her. 

“Alright,” Jazz murmurs, turning for the door. “C’mon... time ta drop ya off.”  
The Compound

Jazz chooses to walk instead of drive to the Compound, cradling Moonlight in his arms tenderly. Still not quite awake, she blinks up at him and clings to his fingers. The humans of the village watch as he walks on through without acknowledging their presence, lost in thought.

In the midst of purposefully withdrawing, Prowl sought out his stash of boosters. He overdosed, nearly offlined— 

Was the withdrawal voluntary?

Did Prowl agree?

Jazz brushes the questions away. No, Prowl didn’t agree. Jazz did. He had forgotten how much the end of the war hurt Prowl. It was hard living with the tactical computer day in, day out, without a use for it. No desk job was truly enough. No wonder he micromanaged everything.

In his arms, Moonlight squeaks and Jazz lifts her up to kiss at her cheeks. “Yes, sweetness,” he murmurs. “Yer Mama’s got a lot to work on. But dat’s why we love ‘im.”

The Compound rises over the next swell in the road and Jazz takes a deep breath and a steady ex-vent. Activating his com, he dials into Westie’s comlink.

Westie picks up after a couple of rings. “Hello?” she chirps into the com. The sounds of the other kids laughing and chattering in the background almost drown her out.

“Westie?” It’s Jazz, and his voice sounds... different. Sad. 

Westie frowns and excuses herself from the table filled with sparklings who are too busy splattering paint and pouring glitter across their art projects to notice. She quickly exits the bay, now a temporary art studio, and into the quiet house. 

“Hey Jazz. What’s up?” she asks carefully, leaning against the wall.

“Are ya home? Ah need ta ask ya... a favor.”

“Yeah, I’m home,” Westie replies, straightening even though he can’t see her. Her mind is racing, listing off all the things that could possibly be happening. None of them are good. “And absolutely. When do you think you’ll be over?”

“Well, uh,” Jazz mumbles. “Ah can see yer house from here. Ah’m just over the ridge.”

“Oh! Well come on over,” she says, voice upbeat as she quickly winds through the house’s additions and to the front door.

Jazz takes a deep breath and looks down at Moonlight in his arms. She blinks up at him, doorwings twitching in the swaddling.

“Here we go, Moons,” he murmurs, tucking her ever closer to his chest. He descends the ridge and hops across the path to the Compound’s front door. Knocking softly, he lifts Moonlight up to his shoulder and rubs her back lightly.

Westie waits a moment before opening the door, a smile on her face. “Hey there Jazz,” she says again gently. “Do you want to come inside?”

He pulls a smile onto his face and nods. “Ah’d love to.”

Westie steps aside, opening the door wider to let him past. “Can I get you anything to drink? Lifelight just got a ‘surprise’ shipment of sweetened energon for his birthday.” She closes the door behind him and leads him to the couch in the livingroom.

“Naw, that’s Lifeflight’s goodies,” Jazz says, bouncing Moonlight in his arms. He takes a seat and settles Moon down into the crook of his arm, and she stares up at Westie with big, round optics.

Westie tilts her head, sitting across from him. “Is everything okay, Jazz?” she asks softly, even though everyone is in the other room.

He looks up at her and his smile fades somewhat into a hurt, pained expression.

“No,” he murmurs. “Ah suppose it isn’t, Westie. Prowler’s... in medbay. An’ Ah... Ah came over ta...”

He bites his lip and shuts his optics tight, visor dimming. His shoulders hunch up and Moonlight squeaks up at him. 

Westie quickly gets up and moves to the open seat beside him on the other couch. She offers him her open hand. “I’m so sorry, Jazz,” she murmurs, putting her other hand on his shoulder.

Jazz leans into the touch and slips his hand into hers, lacing their fingers together. 

“He’s done messed it all up again,” Jazz whispers, curling Moonlight into his chest again. “ ‘E... took some boosters. Overdosed in ‘is office. Doc’s keepin’ ‘im right now, but—“

Glancing down at Moonlight in his arms, Jazz takes a shaky breath in. “He said we need ta give Blue and Moons to other people, right now. We’re... not fit to take care of them.”

With this admission, a rolling, coughing, sob echoes through Jazz’s chest and he curls around Moonlight, clutching her tightly in one arm and Westie’s hand in the other. 

Westie wraps her free arm around Jazz, pulling him close. “Jazz…” she says, looking down at the baby in his arms. “I’m so sorry. That’s not right… and not Ratchet’s call to make. I’ll go talk some sense into him.”

Leaning into her embrace, Jazz vents shakily, trying to calm down. “If’n ya think it’ll help,” he mumbles. “Prowler is sick. ‘E’s been sick for... a while now. Ah knew he used, but not like this. Maybe Ratchet’s right.”

“You shouldn’t have to give up Moonlight and Blue, though. Not if you don’t want to. That’s outrageous,” she says, rubbing his back.

“Ah don’ wanna,” he says, petting Moonlight’s tiny doorwings. “But Prowler is so messed up right now. Ah wanna keep ‘em both wit’ me but...”

Westie pauses a moment. “What do you think will be best for you, Jazz?” she asks softly.

“I...”

“They’re your kids, Jazz. You can decide if you want to keep them or not. No one else can decide that for you,” she explains gently, rubbing his back.

“Ah can’t do it,” he whispers. “Ah need to take care of Prowler, an’... an’ Ah’m gonna hafta take over his job while he’s sick. Somebody has ta take over mah job though if Imma do that.”

Westie nods slowly. “Okay… We’re here to help you if you need anything,” she says softly.

Jazz forces a strained smile onto his face as he slowly shifts Moonlight into Westie’s lap. “She’s mah good girl,” he murmurs, cupping Moonlight’s helm in his hand. “If... if ya really can take care of ‘er, just fer a little while, I... have her things. Here.”

Westie takes the baby in her arms securely, but looks up at him with surprise. “We definitely can Jazz… if you’re sure. We’ll take the best care of her.”

“It’s for the best,” he whispers, reaching into his subspace. 

He brings out a moderate grouping of energon cubes, a few picture books, and a worn stuffed crescent moon. Its creamy white fabric is fresh and new, with only a couple energon urp stains that have been scrubbed away until they are faded. The moon’s eyes are closed and a soft smile stretches across one side of its face with rosy cheeks at the ends. Tiny purple stars speckle the fabric around the moon’s eyelashes.

“This is Moony’s,” he murmurs, setting the cubes aside to offer her the toy. Squeaking, Moonlight latches on and hugs it tight. 

Westie smiles a little bit, watching the sparkling cuddle with it. “We’ll take care of both of them.” She pauses and looks back up at him. “You can come over whenever you want, Jazz. Always.”

“Thanks,” he murmurs, voice faint. “Ah figured Blues could stay wit’ Bumblebee and G. He’s been... moody, an’ don’ wanna put that kinda stress on ya. Ah feel bad askin’ about Moons as it is, but Ratch suggested yer family to meh.”

“Don’t feel bad at all, Jazz,” she says, putting a hand on his knee. “We’re always willing to help. And Moony is a doll. We’re happy to have her.”


	5. Bye, Blue

After returning from the Compound, Jazz’s processor was spinning, thinking about Prowl. Boosters usually had negative after-effects, would Prowl be okay? Who was going to command the Autobots while Prowl was out of commission?

Jazz would. He could lead them.

But who would do Jazz’s job?

Special operations wouldn’t run itself, and Dark Missions required a firm hand without Depthcharge in place to keep them under control. Mirage? No, he didn’t grab the promotion when it came up. Redbeam? He wanted to be second so badly but he can be so disagreeable sometimes. Still, he made a fine agent.

Jazz pauses in the doorway to his habsuite, not quite keying in the code to the door. Bluestreak had to stay with Bumblebee... what about asking Bee to go back to work? Only temporarily, of course, Jazz knew he wanted to stay retired and away from the bustle of the daily grind but Jazz could think of no one more suited to the task. Plus, it wouldn’t be fair to ask one of the other commanders to take the helm. Jazz knew how overloading a processor played out.

Keying in the code and opening up the door, Jazz enters the hab. “Blues?” he calls. “You ready?”

“Yeah,” Bluestreak’s muffled voice comes from his room. “Should I take the short-barrel or the long one?”

“Take yer favorite,” Jazz responds, going into the kitchen and grabbing himself a cube. His fuel levels were running low, he didn’t have time to fuel that morning.

Bluestreak emerges with his favorite rifle clipped into place on his back and he flashes Jazz a bright smile. “Ready!”

“Good,” Jazz grins, downing half the cube in two big gulps. “Let’s go.”

He stows the cube back in the cupboard and leads Bluestreak towards the medbay. Waving at Ratchet as Jazz walks over to the warp pad, he guides Bluestreak through the energy field onto the other side. 

“Jazz! Blue! What a surprise,” G calls, exiting the playroom. “How are you this fine afternoon?”

“Not bad, been better,” Jazz says, pulling a grin onto his face as he hugs her tight and pecks her cheek with a kiss. 

“Been a long time,” Blue chirps, giving her a hug too. “I’m here to—”

“Jazz? We’ve been expecting you,” Bumblebee says, voice emanating from the library. He walks out with Raybeam on his shoulders, clinging to his helm. “We need to talk.”

Jazz nods, cheerful smile faltering. “We do.”

“Then let’s move this into the library. We’ll have to evict the bookworm,” G says, shooing Blue and Jazz away from the warp pad. “Sun? Can you manage for a few minutes?”

“Not an issue,” he responds from the playroom. 

Bumblebee sets Raybeam down and looks back into the library. “Shield? Come on, we need to use the couch for a moment. You can come back when we’re done.”

The silver sparkling steps out after a few moments, holding a couple books in his hands. He stops and stares up at Jazz and Bluestreak before darting around them and running upstairs.

G pulls a serving tray and a few energon cubes out and brings them into the library. “What exactly is going on?” she asks.

“Blue, ya don’ have ta listen ta this,” Jazz says. “Why don’t ya sit on da porch? It looks nice out there.” 

After Bluestreak moves onto the porch, Jazz steps into the library and sits down.

“Prowl had an episode this morning,” he begins.  
...  
“...and Ratch thinks it would be best if Blue and Moons stay elsewhere for now.”

“I knew Prowl used, but I didn’t know it was to this extent,” Bumblebee murmurs, drinking from his energon cube. “And you’re going to take his spot? And that means you want me to take your spot.”

“In theory, yeah,” Jazz says. “Will ya do it?”

Bee falls quiet and gazes off into space, doorwings twitching in thought.

“Whatever happens, we’ll be happy to look after Bluestreak,” G says, leaning forward. “If you need someone to talk to, Jazz, I’d love to listen. Bee too—”

“I’ll do it.”

G stops talking and both she and Jazz look over at Bee.

“Ya will?”

“I’ll do it,” Bumblebee repeats, “as long as I don’t have to sit in your office all day.”

“Mech, you could do it wherever ya feel like,” Jazz says, a familiar grin taking over his face. “Ah’ve done it everywhere an’ nowhere for da last forever. However ya wanna do it so da work gets done.”

“Well that’s a relief,” G sighs, sitting back. “If there’s anything we can do to help you, Jazz, let us know.”

“Absolutely,” Bumblebee rumbles, leaning over and grabbing Jazz’s hand. “We are here to help you.”

Jazz grips Bee’s hand and smiles, forcing his composure to stay in place. “Well, Ah should check on Prowl in da medbay,” he says, pulling his hand away and standing up. “Thank ya so much fer da help. We... need it, right now.”

“And it’s alright to ask for it,” Bee says. “I’ll report bright and early tomorrow in case you need to run me through anything new.”

Jazz nods and exits the library. “Blue? Ah’m leavin’.”

Bluestreak bounds in from the porch, hugging Jazz tight. “Bye,” he whispers.

“Baby, it’s not forever an’ it’s not goodbye,” Jazz murmurs, kissing his cheek. “Jus’ have fun, okay? An’ be good for G. She’ll get after ya if ya don’t.”

“Of course,” G laughs, leaning into Bumblebee’s side. “Stay strong, Jazz. We’re here for you.”

Bee nods and lifts his fist. “Anytime you call.”

Jazz looks between them and his smile falters as he turns back for the warp pad. “See ya later, Blue.”

He leaves.


	6. Rest, Resuscitation, Recovery

In the medbay, Jazz blinks his optics to clear the tears away as he heads down the hall to medroom sixteen. Knocking gently, he opens the door. “Prowler...?”

“Go away,” Prowl moans, and Jazz pushes the door open.

“Ah will not,” Jazz growls, closing the door firmly. “What were ya thinkin’?”

Prowl looks down at his hands, clenching and unclenching them. 

“Well?”

“I wasn’t,” Prowl answers flatly. “Happy? I wasn’t thinking.”

“Ah knew that already,” Jazz sighs, coming to sit next to the berth. “But why? Cravings?”

Prowl’s brows furrow and he nods. Jazz inches closer and takes one of Prowl’s hands in his. “That addiction is a hard one ta break,” he murmurs. “Ah’m here for ya, Prowler. Ah wanna help ya get better.”

Prowl frowns and after a few moments, he slips his hand away from Jazz’s. Jazz sits back in his seat and watches as Prowl’s doorwings slowly sink down. 

“You don’t have to stay here,” Prowl murmurs. “You’ve already been through this once.”

“Ah wanna stay wit ya,” Jazz says, and Prowl’s frown deepens.

“Leave, Jazz! Please,” Prowl whimpers, snatching up a bucket as his tanks turn and he begins dry heaving again.

“Ah think ya jus’ need some rest,” Jazz murmurs, getting up after Prowl’s episode finishes. “Ah’ll be back later tonight ta see ya.”

Jazz leaves the medbay and turns for his office. May as well gather everything up and make it official so Bumblebee has an easier time stepping into his role tomorrow.  
...  
When Jazz returns in the evening, Prowl is sleeping soundly. First Aid enters the room as Jazz is just situating himself against Prowl’s berth.

“Jazz,” First Aid says. “You don’t need to be here. We had to sedate him. He was manic.”

Jazz looks up at Prowl and then tenderly strokes his cheek with his thumb. “Yeah...”

First Aid sighs softly and leaves a cube of energon for Jazz on the berth before stepping out again.  
...  
The next morning, Jazz wakes with his face planted into the berth’s surface. He has a horribly stiff back and neck, and as he sits up his joints squeak in protest as they warm up. Grabbing the cube First Aid left, he downs it in three draughts and sets it aside. Checking his chronometer, Jazz pushes himself away from the berth and stands. He’s almost late to meet Bumblebee.

Hurrying out of the medbay, he jogs down to his office, slowing to a walk as he nears it. Bumblebee is patiently waiting outside, nibbling on an apple.

“Morning,” he greets, licking a drip of apple juice off his hand.

“Yeah, mornin’,” Jazz grunts, keying in his code and opening the office. “Alrigh’, Bee, the code ta da office is 6-1-0-1 if ya need it. Here’s a list of da work Ah do, and other duties Ah follow, an’--”

“Jazz,” Bee gently interjects. “It’s okay. I did this kind of work for Depthcharge. I have an idea of what to expect.”

Taking the stack from Jazz he thumbs through the datapads before subspacing them.

“It’s all official,” Jazz says. “Mah workload shifts ta you, Prowler’s comes ta meh.”

“Okay,” Bee says, taking another bite of apple. “Jazz... I’m not saying this to be rude, but you look like slag.”

“Ah didn’t sleep well last night,” Jazz quips before he rubs his face and sighs. “Sorry, Bee. It’s been rough. They had ta sedate ‘im yesterday fer gettin’ out of hand.”

“If you need anything, ask,” Bumblebee says, putting a hand on Jazz’s shoulder. “I mean it.”

“Thanks, but Ah’ll be okay,” Jazz murmurs, looking over at his desk. “Jus’ gotta keep goin’. It’ll get better.”

It wouldn’t.


	7. Uselessness

“So what yer sayin’ is that Prowl may or may not be able to walk? Ever?” Jazz asks, leaning against Ratchet’s desk as he reads through the medscan report.

“Yes,” Ratchet sighs. “I’m sorry, Jazz. He was offline for some time before Bluestreak found him, and almost guttered twice when we arrived. And boosters are circuit-damaging anyway. They are too effective on our systems.”

“So what’s it mean?” Jazz asks.

“Excuse me?”

“For Prowl. What does it mean fer ‘im?”

“Well, when the detox is over Prowl can be released to go home with you,” Ratchet says. “He’ll need to use a mobility aid like a wheelchair, but that’s it. The sensation should return in time, with enough patience and therapy.”

Jazz nods, scrolling through the report again. “Okay,” he murmurs. “When can Prowler go home?”

“Later today after our next scan,” Ratchet says. “To make sure the boosters have completely left his systems.”

By the evening, Prowl’s systems were clean enough to release him from medbay. After giving him a wheelchair and some instructions about its parts, Ratchet handed him over to Jazz.

“Where’s Bluestreak?” Prowl asks as Jazz guides the wheelchair into the habsuite. “Jazz, I can push myself around.”

“Ratch had ‘im taken away,” Jazz says, taking his hands off the wheelchair’s handles. “Along wit’ Moons. Said we were unfit.”

“Unfit?” Prowl demands.

“Yeah, ‘cuz you been doin’ hard drugs,” Jazz grits out, preparing two energon cubes. He thrusts one into Prowl’s hands and angrily sips at his. “And Ah didn’t tell ‘im, but Ah know you been doin’ ‘em for a long time.”

Prowl sulks in his wheelchair, optics burning a spot into the floor. 

“An’ ya don’ even have a better reason than addiction ta keep doin’ it,” Jazz growls. “Ah thought yer tactical computer worked on that kinda stuff.”

“It does.” 

“Then somethin’ is malfunctionin’ in there,” Jazz murmurs. “Ya can turn it off.”

Prowl looks up at Jazz, doorwings rising. “What did you say?”

“Ah said, ya can turn it off,” Jazz repeats, crossing his arms. 

“I can't,” Prowl whispers, returning his gaze to the floor.

“Dat’s a load of slag,” Jazz growls. “An’ ya an’ Ah both know it. Ya can turn that thing off jus’ like a light.”

“I can’t,” Prowl stresses. 

“Why not?” Jazz asks, setting his energon cube aside. “Ya don’ need it. The fightin’s over, Prowl. We can... can start rebuilding. Start living.”

“I... I'm useless without it. I don't matter.”

“Prowler,” Jazz says. “Ya do matter. Ta me, ta Blue... ta all of us.”

Prowl looks down at his lap. “Jazz. I don't have a function anymore. The war is over. My tactical computer, it- it gave me a function.”

“So ya find a new one,” Jazz laughs softly, walking over to Prowl and gently fondling his doorwings. “Didn’ we just fight a war over this? Do whatever ya want to, Prowler!”

Prowl’s doorwings flinch under Jazz’s hands before rising into the touches. Lifting a hand to his face, Prowl’s shoulders hunch up as he curls over.

“Prowler?” Jazz murmurs, hand stilling. Softly, Prowl’s shoulders shake as he weeps, clutching onto the rail of the wheelchair. Crouching down next to him, Jazz embraces him tightly and kisses the top of his helm.

“It’s gonna be okay,” Jazz whispers against Prowl’s helm. “Ah know it.”

After a few minutes he kisses Prowl’s cheek. “Let’s go ta bed.”

Pulling back, he accidentally knocks the energon cube off Prowl’s lap and onto the floor. “Whoopsie!”

At the sight of the spilled energon, Prowl begins to cry harder.

“Sweetspark, it’s just some spilled energon,” Jazz murmurs, tossing a towel over the mess. “Ah’ll get it in da mornin’.”

Jazz grabs the wheelchair and gently pushes Prowl into the bedroom. Stopping next to Prowl’s side of the bed, Jazz lifts Prowl out of the wheelchair with steady arms and lays him down on the berth, arranging him carefully among the blankets and pillows on the bed. 

Turning out the lights, Jazz joins Prowl in bed and pulls Prowl into his arms. They fall asleep pressed together.  
...  
Days passed. Without work to attend to and no sparklings to fuss with, Prowl sinks further into his depressive slump while Jazz steadily grows more overworked. Who knew Prowl did all this slag on a daily basis? Fuel ordering, work shift assignments, pit, Prowl even decided what the order of construction was in the developing areas. Were energon refineries or hydroelectric systems more important?

Bumblebee fell into the old role of special operations life, instructing the agents and keeping the chaos at a minimum. Except this time, Mirage was his right hand mech instead of Nightside. Bluestreak grew numb to the change and spent much of his time sitting on the porch and staring out at the wind running through the grass while muttering to himself.

Jazz slowly built up a collection of pillows on the berth. With Prowl’s ability to walk fading in the distance, the circulation in his lower extremities worsened. He required special positioning at night to maintain the energon flow, and he was issued a medical grade catheter due to the limited sensation caused by the circulation.


	8. Don't Come For Me

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: Prowl's suicide attempt in this chapter

After another day of struggling with the daily decisions the Autobot Forces relied on Prowl— or Prowl’s surrogate— to make, Jazz dragged himself home and tiredly made up two cubes of energon.

“It’s bath night,” he grunts, disturbing Prowl’s light dozing in the living room.

“It can wait,” Prowl murmurs.

“No, Ah can’t let things slip,” Jazz tells him, voice weary. He sips his energon cube and then sets it aside. “Come on.”

Bringing Prowl into the washroom, Jazz fills the tub with hot water and some bath soap. After removing Prowl’s breastplate he carefully caps the catheter and lowers Prowl into the bath, settling him amongst the bubbles. Moaning softly as the hot water sinks into his joints, Prowl sighs.

“May... May I just rest here? For a little while,” Prowl mumbles, and Jazz nods.

“Yeah, Prowler. Yeah.”

Getting up, Jazz exits the washroom in search of his cube. Sinking down in the armchair in the living room, he manages one more swallow before his optics flutter and close. Just five minutes...

In the bath, Prowl relaxes into the hot water. He hadn’t done anything all day and still all of his joints ached. Therapy—waste of time. First Aid’s cousin didn’t know her tailpipe from her afterburners. Massage—Prowl didn’t trust anyone to put their hands on him but Jazz. No one knew how sensitive his panels were.

As the water begins to cool, Prowl’s joints stiffen.

“Jazz?” he calls weakly, to no response. “Jazz?”

When no one comes to his aide, Prowl grips the side of the tub and attempts to lift himself out of the water. His arms tremble after raising himself halfway up, and he sloshes back down into the water with a grunt. His frame was such a bother, these days... he was such a bother these days. While he was out of commission, Jazz was forced to do his job to keep the Forces running. If he wasn’t... if he wasn’t here, Jazz wouldn’t have to suffer like this. Prowl could feel how the job was killing him.

Turning his optics slowly to the washroom door, Prowl frowns and reaches over to his wheelchair. Grabbing one of the side bars, he pushes it towards the door, and it succeeds in taking up the space between the waste fluid receptacle and the door. He estimates the door would only open a few inches at the most. It would be better that way.

Sticking his hand into subspace, Prowl pauses. What if Jazz was awake? Would he see?

“Jazz?” Prowl calls. No response.

Retracting his hand from subspace, Prowl pulls out a wedge-shaped dagger and eyes the blade in the light of the washroom. It wasn’t the sharpest—after his overdose, his subspace was cleaned out, so he filched it from an unsuspecting idiot who was day-sitting him—but it did have a cutting blade.

“Don’t come for me,” he whispers.

Lifting the blade, he fingers his spark chamber seams. He was useless. Jazz hadn’t wanted to bond with him in days. He couldn’t even give his partner the joy of rekindling their bond. Useless. Tears form in his eyes as he drives the blade down into his main seam, ripping the blade straight down his chest and maiming the tender seams knitting his chamber together.

In the living room, Jazz gasps to life with a burning pain in his chest. “Prowl!” he cries, staggering over to the washroom. 

He turns the doorknob yet the door doesn’t open but a couple inches. He can’t see Prowl, but he can feel the next cut as Prowl slices the second main seam horizontally.

“PROWL!” Jazz howls, clawing at the door. “Stop! STOP IT!”

Jazz shoves his weight against the door, but the wheelchair was a sturdy piece of equipment, meant to hold mechs much heavier than Prowl, and it wouldn’t budge.

“I’m sorry, Jazz,” Prowl whispers, holding the blade to his wrist. “You shouldn’t have to suffer because of me.”

“Security ta mah hab,” Jazz desperately coms. “Security! Red Alert, Ah know you’re watching these channels, Ah need help now!”

Gritting his denta, Prowl swipes the blade across the main energon lines in his forearm. Jazz wasn’t supposed to know. This has to end. 

Energon bubbles forth, clouding the bathwater as he hisses in pain and drops the knife. His spark grows weaker as more energon pumps out of him, and Jazz’s grabs at the door fade. Just as Prowl can taste the dark-light of the world just beyond his optics, the door to the hab smashes open and a team of mechs tug Jazz out of the way before smashing just as easily through the washroom door, crumpling the wheelchair with relative ease.

It was Roadbuster and Blade Edge, accompanied by First Aid and Jolt. Prowl’s blurry vision loses track on who is touching him, who is talking... everything is reduced to pressure on his mind and his spark as he is lifted out of the water by enormous arms.

Flashes of the corridors. Brilliant white medbay lights. The awful, terrible, agonizing burn of his spark seams being welded together to stem the major bleeding in his chest as someone else cuts into his arm and splices in new tubing. 

Jazz is carted into the medbay sometime after, paint nanites threatening to gray out. He is hooked up to a spark monitor and a few energon bags are hung above him to help raise his fuel levels. After Prowl’s repairs are hurriedly completed and still fresh, he receives the same treatment. 

It is mid-morning when he onlines, gazing up at the ceiling. It was bright, and... belonged to the medbay?

Struggling to sit upright, Prowl gasps as the fresh welds on his chest pinch and pull at his seams uncomfortably.

“Good morning,” a gentle voice greets him.

Prowl blinks and begins noticing the rest of his surroundings as he glances around. Sitting next to him very primly is Rung, looking up at Prowl through those ridiculous round glasses.

“I may not be who you wanted to see this morning,” Rung says, inching his chair to the side. Behind him, sharing the same space, is Jazz on his own berth. “But Jazz is otherwise occupied.”

Prowl’s optics land on Jazz’s frame, still tinged by grey. His doorwings, rising first defensively at Rung’s statement, droop raggedly. “Jazz,” he whispers.

Rung waits several minutes to speak again as the weight of Jazz’s injury sinks in. “It has been a long time coming, Prowl, but we should begin meeting regularly.”

“I don’t need any of your help,” Prowl hisses, doorwings raising. What could Rung possibly know? How his function was removed? How Jazz didn’t want him anymore?

“I’m sorry, Prowl, but this is out of your hands,” Rung says. “Ratchet’s orders.”

Doorwings flat, Prowl lies back on the berth. Rung stands and gazes down at Jazz before quietly leaving the room. 

Prowl puts a hand over his spark seams and bites his lip as a whimper threatens to come out.


	9. Corrective Surgery

The next few days are a blur. Jazz is in and out, one day his colors are bright and the next he’s threatening to gray out again. Once the welds have settled on Prowl’s chest, Ratchet orders corrective surgery. 

“Jazz is going to wake up and you two are heavily recommended to bond. This latest encounter has left Jazz weakened,” Ratchet told Prowl after running through the surgery’s components. 

“And if he doesn’t want to?” Prowl growls softly. 

“Then I will give him another heavy recommendation,” Ratchet mutters. 

After the fourth day of staying in medbay, Prowl is taken in for surgery. Heartstart would be the one behind the knife, with Jolt and Ratchet standing by just in case of an emergency. 

With his frame strapped to the table to prevent his self-defense coding from activating, Prowl stares up at the ceiling. Couldn’t they leave him how he is? He was useless anyway. 

“It may hurt,” Heartstart warns him. “We’ve dosed you heavily with some pain meds but spark injuries are different. They hurt in a different way—“

“I know,” Prowl growls up at him. “I did this to myself.”

“Then I suppose I don’t need to explain any more,” Heartstart says quietly. 

Looking down at Prowl’s bared chest, he lifts a scalpel off his surgical tray and leans over to inspect the welds. Prodding the surface with his fingertips, he nods and brings the blade down against the skin. 

Jolt takes a deep breath. 

With the first cut, Prowl’s entire torso tenses and his arms tug against the bindings. A sharp, pained yell forces its way out of his chest as Heartstart continues to cut, making a precise line down the middle of Prowl’s main spark seams. 

“Doing great,” Heartstart grits out, lifting the blade away. Prowl’s chest heaves and his internal cooling fans scream in response. 

Changing position, Heartstart grabs a new blade and makes the first horizontal cut, steadying his hand against his wrist. Prowl grits his denta and his doorwings sharply rise over his shoulders as another howl rips its way from his vocalizer.

“One more,” Heartstart murmurs, moving to Prowl’s other side with another new blade.

“Looks good, Heartstart,” Jolt calls gently. “You’re doing great.”

Flashing him a quick, tense smile, Heartstart makes the final cut. Prowl is panting and shaking on the berth, rivulets of perspiration trickling out of the seams in his armor.

“I’ll give you a moment to breathe,” Heartstart says, setting the blade down on the tray. “Then I have to stem the bleeding.”

Prowl’s only response is a sharp growl, optics flashing brightly up at Heartstart. After he cleanses his hands again, Heartstart returns. 

“I’m going to stop the bleeding now,” Heartstart murmurs. “I have a gel with nanites in it that I am going to apply to the incisions.”

Nodding stiffly, Prowl watches as Heartstart opens up a clear tube filled with silver, shimmering liquid. Lowering his hands to the incisions, Heartstart applies a liberal amount along Prowl’s sparkseams. The nanites get to work at once, buzzing around in the gel they were applied with and latching onto the incisions.

“To make sure they don’t reseal the seams, I’m going to help you open your chamber,” Heartstart murmurs. “Not very far. Just enough to allow the nanites in along the full length of the incisions.”

Doorwings pinning back, Prowl clears his vocalizer before a whimper escaped. “Fine.”

Heartstart sets the tube aside and lowers his hands to Prowl’s chest. His fingertips are soft, gentle, and Prowl closes his optics and tilts his helm back. Anything to separate himself from this procedure.

The grip on Prowl’s chest grows firmer as Heartstart massages the lesser seams of Prowl’s chamber. As expected, he teases Prowl’s chamber open partway and allows the nanites to crawl inside.

Approaching the berth, Ratchet lifts the tube of nanites and applies some to his index finger, carefully swiping down Prowl’s bleeding seams. Prowl gasps and his back arches in pain. Pulling his hand away, Ratchet sets the tube aside and Heartstart releases his grip on Prowl’s chest.

The seams snap shut and Prowl’s processor nearly resets with the buzzing, burning pain that comes from his seams meeting.

“Now I’m going to bandage your seams and you can return to your room,” Heartstart murmurs, but Prowl can barely hear him. The room slowly darkens as he passes out from the spark-pain.  
...  
He wakes slowly, settled in his joint room with Jazz. A soft retching sound reaches his processor as his audio systems come online, and his optics crack open slowly. Glancing to the side, he sees Jazz purging into a tray held by a nurse. The nurse mech looks up at him and smiles warmly, rubbing Jazz’s back.

The fluid coming out of Jazz’s mouth is grey and blue, part energon, and part... something else.

“This is da pit,” Jazz rasps, voice faint and weak.

“You’re doing great,” the nurse assures him. “Your frame is improving, these things happen with greyout.”

Jazz rests a hand on the tray, visor focusing on the berth next to him. As he notices Prowl is awake, his mouth parts with a soft noise. 

“Prowler,” he says. “Yer awake.”

Prowl blinks and resets his optics as his doorwings lift on his back. He felt so dizzy.

“Prowl?” the nurse asks, standing up as his vision grows fuzzy again.

He slumps before the nurse reaches him.  
...  
The next time he wakes, Jazz’s berth is pressed up against his, and Prowl studies Jazz’s nervous recharging posture. Tentatively reaching out, Prowl brushes Jazz’s arm and is rewarded with Jazz shifting sleepily towards him, pressing up against his leg. Resting his hand on Jazz’s shoulder, Prowl sighs and touches his seams. At least they aren’t sealed shut and pulling uncomfortably, but there is a lingering burning sensation present with each beat of his spark.

He dozes off and on until First Aid enters the room. “I’m just here to check your energy levels.”

Jazz stirs and slowly pushes himself upright. Lifting his hand away, Prowl attempts to sit up more primly. 

“Have you two bonded yet?” First Aid asks.

“Ah’m not one ta open mah seams in otha’ places,” Jazz says, sitting up with some effort. “Could we go home? It’s not like we need da constant monitorin’.”

“Says the grey one,” First Aid teases gently. “I’ll see what I can arrange. I make house calls around in the residential areas, so I’m sure it wouldn’t be hard to have you both discharged so you can bond in the safety and comfort of your quarters. It would need to be examined by the security teams, though.”

Prowl stiffens. “Why?”

“Because that is procedure, after an attempt,” First Aid says, scanning Jazz’s chest, then Prowl’s. “I’ll look into having you discharged. The sooner you bond, the better. Then there won’t be as many paths to reforge and both of you will grow in health.”

He exits the medroom, shutting the door quietly. Prowl sighs, then lays back further on his berth. Jazz lies down and curls up on his side, studying the bandages on Prowl’s chest. 

“Think they’ll take those off?” Jazz murmurs, reaching out and tenderly fingering one of the bandage folds. 

Prowl instinctively flinches and his doorwings rise weakly. “I don’t know,” he answers, and Jazz lowers his hand. 

Sighing, Jazz closes his optics. “Wake meh up if they come back.”

Prowl turns his gaze to the door. He has... to stay... awake...  
...  
Prowl wakes at a gentle hand on his arm. First Aid gazes down at him, kindly optics studying him through his visor.

“First Aid,” Prowl forces out, and the medic nods. 

“You were dreaming, Prowl.”

He steps back and looks them over. “It’s been cleared for you to go home. A security team will escort you there and inspect the premises before you will be allowed to be alone.”

Prowl vents his distaste, and the stirring of his blankets wakes Jazz, who drags himself upright. “First— First Aid. Wha’s happenin’?”

“You’re cleared to go home with security supervision,” First Aid says. “They need to inspect your quarters before allowing Prowl to remain with you.”

“Oh,” Jazz murmurs, nodding and resetting his visor.


End file.
